


Carpe Diem, and all that

by ErikLeFantome



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Barricade Day, Gen, M/M, One-Sided Enjolras/Grantaire, Possible Eventual Enjolras/Grantaire, Post-Barricade, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-03 05:30:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4088761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErikLeFantome/pseuds/ErikLeFantome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A morning in the life of Enjolras. Just a sort of sketchly one-shot/maybe two-shot for Barricade Day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I hadn't meant to stay awake so long into the night, but when I woke face down on my desk with a map stuck to my cheek, I realised I may've been in need of some sleep. The ashen light of the morning filtered in through my attic window, highlighting the dust motes that swirled lazily in the stuffy air. Running a hand through my hair, I blinked thrice, stretching my arms in a wide arc around me. While the rest of Paris was still in a fitful slumber, I had work to do.

Pulling pieces of parchment from my face, I stood up wearily. The candle at my side had burnt down to a stub, the wax dripping onto my hand and the leather covers of some of my books. Sighing heavily, I picked the dried wax from my skin and scraped it carefully off of half-finished pamphlets, leaving an oily stain behind. Reading through my notes from the previous evening, I raised an eyebrow in amusement; most of my writing was unreadable, getting worse as it went on. Leaving the deciphering until later, I collected my books, maps, and numerous scrawlings into my satchel and brushed down my wrinkled clothes. Flinging a black cravat carelessly around my neck, I shrugged on my waistcoat and jacket, anxious to get to the café and finish planning my speeches for the day.

I grabbed my keys and counted the coins in my purse, checking I had enough to pay the rent. Normally I would write a cheque, but Madame Ducasse "couldn't buy bread with scraps of paper and ink". I almost tripped over my boots on the way out that lay neatly by the door. Cursing softly, I pulled them on, my door key hanging out of my mouth. After falling almost drunkenly into the piano, I rushed out of the door of my apartment, careful not to make too much noise as I closed it behind me. Turning the key in the lock, I ducked underneath the low beam above the stairs and darted down them three at a time.

I shoved the purse of coin through the landlady's letterbox, and stepped out into the cold Parisian fog. The air was still but bitter, the kind that burns your nose when you breathe. I pulled my jacket tightly around my torso, and began striding down the almost empty streets. It was on mornings like this that I could almost forget the smell of the Seine. The streets were practically deserted, as was expected this early in the morning.

I lived at No. 4 _Rue aux Ours_ , on the junction between this road and the _Rue Saint-Martin_ , therefore across the river from the Café Musain, and quite a long walk after such a small amount of sleep.

Passing the _Eglise Saint Leu,_ I saw a young woman stood on the porch of the petite church, a ladle in hand as she filled numerous wooden bowls with hot soup. A crowd of starved Parisians flocked about her like vultures, flapping their wings madly for want of food. The church could never be fully uncorrupted by power and wealth, but at least their short term intentions were in the right place. I dipped my head politely as I passed the group.

Continuing down the Rue Saint-Denis, I crossed over the Seine and the Ile de la Cite, its green waters obscured by the still fog. Notre-dame loomed over the south bank as I crossed the second bridge heading towards the Jardin du Luxembourg.

The warm glow of a _boulangerie_ shone through the mist, a group of _gamin_ lingering outside, drawn towards the promise of bread. Breaking my stride for a few moments, I watched the emaciated children, the fruitless hope on their haggard, pale faces, and felt pity stir my heart. They were, after all, the generation we were fighting for - the children of Patria, and therefore my responsibility.

Plunging my hands into my pockets, I diverted course towards the bakery. The _gamin_ hung back, obviously wary of my approach. As I pushed the door open, a small brass bell rung heralding my arrival. A large woman almost immediately came ambling into the front of the shop, clapping her hands together to rid them of excess flour. The smell of croissants and assorted plaits wafting towards me made my mouth water, and I was horribly reminded that I hadn’t eaten anything since the evening before. Ignoring the buttery and sweet aromas, I nodded politely to the baker’s wife.

‘Our first customer, as always _Monsieur_ ,’ she greeted me, tucking a strand of ginger hair away from her flushed face. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Only a baguette, _s’il vous plait_.’ I replied, handing over the change that I kept safely in the depths of my coat pocket.

‘Just one?’ she questioned with a glint in her eye.

'Make it two.’ I added with a smile.

She rolled the bread in brown paper and handed it to me with a flourish

‘Good day, _Monsieur_.’ she smiled and I nodded before leaving as quickly as I’d come.

The group of boys eyed me cautiously as I left the shop, but they were soon distracted by the bread I held in my hands.

‘Send Gavroche my regards.’ I said as I handed the oldest boy the rolls of paper. ‘And remember to share. You wouldn’t want your brothers and sisters to go hungry.’

The _gamin_ stared open mouthed and wide eyed at me as though I’d grown and extra head.

‘ _Oui, monsieur!_ ’ he grinned broadly, flashing his dirty brown teeth. ‘ _Bien sûr, monsieur! Merci beaucoup, monsieur!’_

Before I could say ‘you’re welcome’ the _gamin_ was gone, along with his friends, scampering back down the muddy alley. Their feet had barely touched the cobblestones as they fled. My heart was considerably lighter, but with a stark image of poverty brought to the forefront of my mind I was even more anxious to have a pen in hand and an audience to preach to.

The _Place Saint Miche_ l was entirely deserted, save for a child throwing stones into one of the fountains in the _Jardin_. I then noticed that the oil lamps inside the café were not yet lit. Frowning, I checked my pocket watch; it had only just turned 6 o’clock. I laughed lightly in disbelief, shaking my head.

The hinges of the backdoor creaked when I swung it open, but apart from that the meeting room was so silent you could hear a pin drop. I was used to being the first here by now.

Closing the door firmly, I swung my satchel onto the desk beneath an ink sketch of the _Palais du Louvre_ (probably belonging to Jehan) pinned to the wall. Opening the drawers of the desk that I kept locked to keep maps and plans away from prying eyes, I spread my notes out on the table, using three half used candles as paperweights.

Rubbing my eyes, I sat down and carefully opened my copy of ‘ _Discourse on the Origin and Basis of Inequality Among Men’_ by Rousseau, affectionately caressing the pages as I did so.

_“The first man who, having fenced in a piece of land, said ‘This is mine,’ and found people naïve enough to believe him, that man was the true founder of civil society.”_

The immortal words were so engrained into my head that I could’ve recited them backwards, but that didn’t stop me from reading over them again. I drew inspiration from the novel as Patria herself was beside me, whispering the words in my ear. Soon, the ink was dancing across the page, struggling to keep up with the tempo of my racing mind.

There were some days when I would write nothing, and instead stare blankly into space, itching to fill the barren parchment with my swirling script. It was on those nights when my thoughts would plague me worst, pushing incessantly against the outer reaches of my consciousness until the early hours of the morning. And other days, like today, were days when I could write as though my hand was on fire.

Unfortunately, it was on one these days that I was most likely to be disturbed.

I was so absorbed in my writing, that I didn't notice the city coming to life around me and the buzz of noise from the _Place Saint Michel_ growing steadily louder outside the window. What I did notice however, was the rowdy solo singing of a drunken man approaching the backroom.

' _Remplis ton cœur d'un vin rebelle, et à demain, ami fidèle!'_ the young man bellowed as he swung the door open wide.

His coal black hair was curly and ruffled and he looked as though he'd woken up in a ditch - the likelihood was that he had. His shirt was stained yellow with pipe-smoke, but the usual sea-green waistcoat had survived the worst of his late-night adventures.

A wide grin spread across his face when he saw me.


	2. Chapter 2

'Jolras!' he cried, forgetting to close the door as he flung his arms awkwardly around me.

Gritting my teeth, I pushed the drunkard away in annoyance.

' _Bonjour_ , Grantaire.' My attempts to hide the anger in my voice failed miserably.

For a moment Grantaire's eyes were downcast and his wide smile was gone, but in an instant he was back to his usual careless self. He threw himself into the chair opposite me, and was already leafing through some of my notes.

'Fancy seeing you here.' he joked, bringing the paper closer to his face in an attempt to decipher my handwriting.

'You left the door open.' I observed, ignoring his last comment.

Oblivious to my scorn, he threw his arms up in mock alarm.

'Well it appears I did!' he laughed. 'You're _so_ good to remind me.'

I could smell the alcohol on him as he brushed past me, and it made me want to gag. Why he sought to drown himself in absinthe night after night was beyond me. Wincing as the door slammed, I gripped my pen tighter in my hand and proceeded to write, but my flow of thought had now been disrupted. It was near impossible to think of anything decent to write with Grantaire trying to read my book upside down from across the desk.

After a long silence of nothing but the pen scratching on paper, Grantaire became agitated, drumming his fingers on the wood. He cleared his throat.

'So... How's the revolution going?' he asked.

 _If you’d paid any attention anything I'd said in the past few years you might have some sort of idea!_ I thought and instead I changed the subject.

'You've been drinking. Again.' I pointed out, putting my pen down and raising an eyebrow.

'Me?' he smiled nervously. 'No Jolras, it’s this coat, the smell clings to it and it’s damn near impossible…'

I simply glared at him as he trailed off.

'If you must know...' he rolled his eyes, knowing he was caught. 'I had a few yesterday evening-'

'A few?' I questioned.

'Sorry, Jolras, but we can't all preach pretty words until our tongues fall out.' he sighed. 'Some of us like to live our lives. _Carpe diem,_ and all that.'

'If getting dead-drunk every night is the life you lead, then I'll keep to my own thank you.' I reached across the desk and snatched my papers out of his hands, gathering them together and putting them safely back in a drawer.

Grantaire smirked and crossed his arms.

'So how is your writing going?' he inquired again.

By this point, I knew ignoring him would have no effect, so I abandoned all hope of anymore studying and/or writing for the morning.

'It was going well until you came in.' I replied coolly, but my scorn seemed to bounce straight off of Grantaire.

'And now it must be going 10 times better, am I right?' he smiled conceitedly.

It was difficult not to let his quick wit get the better of me sometimes.

'Don't you have anything better to do?' I snapped, leaning back in my chair.

I wasn't an unsociable man, quite the opposite when I wanted to be, but anything I said to Grantaire seemed to go in one ear and out the other. Why was it that he could remember how I liked my coffee but not once could he recall anything important I'd said?

'Not particularly.' he countered, leaning back so that he mimicked my posture.

'A lecture to attend?' I suggested and he shrugged.

'You said it yourself, I'd never remember anything the poor old professor was saying.'

'I'm sure Jehan isn't doing anything today, maybe-'

'He'll be here shortly.' Grantaire cut me off and gestured to the stack of books next to me. 'Besides, I thought I'd help you with your speeches.'

'You? Help me?' I couldn't help but smile at that.

'Why not?' He looked thoroughly offended. 'I can read.'

'Oh I'm sorry, sometimes its easy to forget.'

'Let me see.' the drunk decided, grabbing the first book on the pile and beginning to read the first page.

My mouth fell open in a silent protest against his clumsy handling of the pages. Grantaire's brow furrowed in confusion as he read on, and before he'd finished the first page, he'd closed the book loudly in an expression of his disapproval.

'This is tedious stuff, my friend!' he sighed, wiping non-existent perspiration from his forehead.

'It wouldn't be so tedious if you actually cared.' I muttered, putting the books under the table and away from Grantaire's curiosity.

'I do care!' he insisted, sounding like a petulant child.

'About what?' I questioned, but his reply was cut off by Lesgles and Joly bursting in through the café door.

Lesgles, as always, had more panache than Grantaire, but nevertheless his waistcoat was missing two buttons and the top hat was crooked on his bald head. Joly, on the other hand, couldn't have looked more immaculate, his spotless tailcoat accompanied by a pair of white gloves. Apparently his study of medicine had made him a bit too worried about personal hygiene.

‘ _Bonjour_ , gents!’ they announced their arrival almost in unison and Grantaire tipped an imaginary hat to greet them.

Part of me loved the _amis_ , but other times they were just distracting. Most had passion for the revolution, and if not passion then they were all here for the barricades. Little boys running around with guns playing at being soldiers. _When the revolution comes, they’ll change._ I thought, but again I had my doubts. Some were more strategic than others, such as Joly and Combeferre, but others were a bit more like Grantaire – carefree, and thus using his freedom to muse about base and pointless things.

“Did my eyes deceive me or did I see you escorting a wonderfully busty – ah, I mean beautiful - young lady home last night?” Grantaire proved my thoughts right as he arched an eyebrow seductively, clutching at his own chest to imitate the unfortunate woman’s breasts.

Colour rose quickly to Joly’s cheeks and he stammered, eyeing me warily. If he was worried I’d be disappointed, he was right. I didn’t appreciate the primal desires of the flesh.

“She was beautiful, yes, but she wasn’t- I mean I wasn’t-“

“Was it your house or hers?”

“Lay off it you drunk bastard,” Lesgle laughed, clapping Grantaire hard on the back. “We’d never bring a whore home.”

“Too loyal to Musichetta?” my voice was dripping with sarcasm – it was too early in the morning to bother with their vulgarity. “If loyalty is what you call it.”

“Yes, _en fait_ , we are.” Lesgle shot back, and I knew better than to argue. Both men claimed that if Homer’s Greeks had shared mistresses, then why couldn’t they? Napoleon had had at least ten mistresses. But I hated Napoleon and wanted to point out that Homer’s Greeks had lived about 2000 years ago, but it seemed irrelevant. If Musichetta was happy to love them both, then who was I to judge? In matters of the heart, my counsel was generally unwanted.

“To take another woman would be to insult her Musichetta.” Grantaire chimed in.

 _‘Take’ another woman?_ I thought. _I pity any woman ‘taken’ by Grantaire._

He was constantly plagued by a cloud of wine fogging his mind. Whether he’d ever had any sense in the first place, I couldn’t tell.

“But about the busty woman – what was her name?” Grantaire inquired as he sauntered over to the drinks cabinet to pour himself a glass of whisky.

I sighed and rested my head on my arm as my comrades roared with laughter. It was only going to get louder as more of the bawdy _amis_ arrived. How could I lead a revolution with men like this? I checked my pocket watch and screamed internally – it was going to be a long day.


End file.
